


Empty Chairs

by heartstrings



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Sweethearts, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, M/M, Small Town Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings
Summary: Growing up in the middle of Nowhere, Canada isn't easy. Especially when your family is barely scraping by and all your dreams are of escaping. Luckily, with Jonny, Patrick doesn't have to dream alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toewsyourheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/gifts).



> I’d been wanting to write a small town boys fic for a while when I heard The Lumineers song _Sleep On The Floor_. So this is partly inspired by that and partly by my undying adoration for stories about best friends growing up and falling in love together. Thank you to [boodreaus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/boodreaus/pseuds/boodreaus) and [nuuclears](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nuuclears/pseuds/nuuclears) for looking this over, making this better, and fixing all my mistakes. Love you both. <3

_'Cause if we don't leave this town  
We might never make it out_

 

_Twenty-One_

Patrick’s tapping his fingers in an arrhythmic pattern against the plywood tabletop. He’s sitting, but it’s hard to stay still with the way his thoughts are racing against the beat of his pulse.

The airport terminal around him is mostly dead, full of no one but him, the few nightshift employees, and the whistling of the wind outside. There’s the sound of a pop song playing not far away, something Jackie’s listened to a thousand times before.

Patrick looks at the time on his phone. Forty-five minutes until his flight leaves. No messages. No calls. 

It'd take him five minutes to walk back through security to make it out of the airport. Just five minutes, if he decided he wanted to stay, and what a rich fucking thought that is after all his years of wanting to leave.

It should be such an easy decision: Get on the plane, don't look back. 

It should be. It's not.

 

_Seven_

Patrick hates his new school. It’s full of hallways that look all the same, none of his friends, and teachers that don’t know his name. The cafeteria smells like sour bread. Nothing is familiar and everything is awful.

Mom says it’s a fresh start.

Dad says he’ll get used to things soon enough. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to their smaller house, or not being able to play hockey anymore.

Erica says she already has a new best friend. Her name is Hannah, but everyone calls her Banana. What a stupid name. What a stupid fruit.

He hates his new school and Canada and dumb people with dumb fruit names. Patrick wants to go home.

 

_Thirteen_

Jonny hovers. Patrick’s pretty sure he’s not even aware he’s doing it most of the time. Ever since that day at the lake, he’s been like this, carefully close and never too far, like Patrick might fall back into the water at any minute. Like danger is always a breath away.

It’s pretty fucking ridiculous, but then, so is Jonny, as a general person who exists. So Patrick lets him do his thing, happy if he’s happy and unbothered by the rest.

Only sometimes idiot dickheads at school like to push Patrick around because they’re bigger and they can, and that makes the Jonny thing worse. Not that Patrick’s particularly helping the situation by exercising his smartass mouth and shiteating grin, but, well, they started it. As usual.

They’re doing a unit on field hockey in the gym during fourth period when it all goes south this time around. James Salander and Drew Paulson are the culprits, spitting knives about Patrick's ratty tennis shoes and home-buzzed haircut. Instead of saying anything back, Patrick scores three more goals against their team, too fast to catch on the court and even harder to stop.

It only pisses them off more that he can brush them off and still be better. That he can smile brightly the whole time they're trying to tear him down.

He's been winding them up like this all week, pleased at how it makes them push harder during these meaningless games, how they’ll chase him, never able to quite catch him. They’ll throw their sticks in a rage, or try to ram Patrick into the wall, shove him into other people. It never works. In the end, he’s always the one gliding away, sailing towards the goal and scoring despite their weak ass efforts.

So really Patrick should’ve seen it coming, the stick that appears out of the blue to trip him up. It’s Paulson’s. He almost sidesteps it too, but then there’s Salander catching him at the back of his knees, slicing sharp and mean. He goes down face first, chin bouncing off the gym floor and splitting open. The blood gets everywhere, dripping on the ground and his shirt, over his hands as he tries to mop it up. It stings, but it’s a dull pain, just a pinch. Still, when Jonny sees him, Patrick can barely blink or get a word out before Salander and Paulson are piled together on the floor with Jonny whaling on them both as their gym teacher, Mrs. Durand, screeches at them to break apart.

Such a mess.

Later, when they’re waiting outside of the principal’s office to receive their extremely unfair and unjust punishment, Patrick thinks about how if Jonny wasn’t there, nobody would’ve had his back. Nobody. He hates it. He hates this fucking dinky town full of nobodies in the middle of fuck all nowhere. He wishes he could run away.

“And you were just,” Jonny laughs, retelling Patrick the events of that afternoon like Patrick wasn’t there experiencing them vividly. “Just popping in and out of there, slipping out of everyone’s grasp like peekaboo, now you see me, now you don’t. Fuckin’ hilarious.”

“Yeah,” Patrick grumpily sighs.

Jonny nudges him with an elbow. “Oh, what? You mad at me now?”

He’s so pleased with himself. It’s gross.

“I don’t need you to fight for me,” Patrick hisses.

The door to the principal’s office opens then, cutting off whatever Jonny was about to say as Mr. Richeilieu asks for Jonny to come inside. Paulson and Salander went before them, both exiting Mr. Richeilieu’s office dejected and silent. He hopes they both got expelled. Assholes.

Patrick’s still frowning as Jonny stands, grinning and ready to accept his due.

“Too bad,” he shrugs cheerfully. “Can’t get rid of me now, Peeks.”

Patrick flips him off as he goes, stomach somersaulting violently at the heart-twisting, fireworks-bright smile Jonny shoots him over his shoulder.

What an idiot. Patrick wants punch him in the mouth. With his fist and his foot and his lips and...

_Oh._

Oh no.

 

 _Seventeen_

There’s a cool spring breeze drifting in through Patrick’s half-open bedroom window. It’s too chilly for it to be open this late, or at all, really, but Patrick keeps it that way all the same for that moment when Jonny crawls through it and stumbles onto the floor. It’s the same every time now, his shoulders too broad and his body too long to fit easily. Instead he has to wedge himself inside until he works his way past the frame and practically falls to the carpet on his face.

Not sometimes. Every time.

He’s wearing shorts, old Adidas flip flops, and a hoodie when he barrels into Patrick’s room and plops onto his bed tonight. His bare legs are surprisingly warm against Patrick’s as he climbs underneath the covers, but then, he’s always been a shade warmer than anyone Patrick’s ever known. It’s nice to melt into him with the air prickly and the house quiet all around them.

“One day it’ll always be like this,” Jonny whispers.

“Like what?” Patrick asks.

They’re both lying on their backs, or as much as they can in Patrick’s unforgiving twin. Jonny has an arm beneath Patrick’s head and Patrick’s got a leg flung over both of Jonny’s, but it’s one of a few positions they’ve perfected over the years. On the ceiling, there’s glow in the dark dinosaur stickers from when they were eleven and Jonny had decided he wanted to be a paleontologist. Patrick can still remember huge chunks of dialogue from _Jurassic Park_ to this very day because of how many times Jonny made them watch the movie for ‘research’ purposes.

He supposes he could’ve taken the stickers down by now or covered them over with a Joe Sakic poster. He hasn’t though. There’s something comforting about them, worn in. They help him fall asleep on the few nights a week Jonny can’t sneak away to climb his clumsy way into Patrick’s room. They’ve been doing this for so long now - Jonny sleeping over and Patrick’s parents pretending they don’t know, but letting it happen anyway - that Patrick feels unsettled when Jonny’s not next to him, half-draped over his back and mouth-breathing into his ear.

Patrick doesn’t want to know any other kind of normal.

“You and me and our own place in some city far away from this shit town,” Jonny says, dragging Patrick from his thoughts.

“Oh yeah?” he grins. “And will we wake up every morning and have breakfast burritos?”

“Definitely,” Jonny says. “And no one will stop us.”

“And we can fuck on the couch.”

“A big couch. With big, soft pillows in our big kickass apartment.”

Patrick turns a little to look at him. “How do we pay for this big kickass apartment?”

Jonny snorts. “We’re professional hockey players, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Patrick echoes. “What team?”

Jonny pauses at this, contemplating. He’s staring off into the distance, brow furrowed in thought while one finger taps against his pink, chapped lips. Patrick takes the opportunity to stare at him, the shadows painting patterns over the cut of his jaw and smooth neck. Something hot and tingly shoots up his spine. What he wouldn’t do for this boy.

Ugh. It's horrible.

“An original six team,” Jonny finally decides. “You’re a top line winger and I’m the best defenseman in the league and we win so many Cups, they put our names in the rafters when we retire.”

He seems pretty smugly satisfied by this assessment.

Patrick _hmms_. “I still think you’d be a better forward. A defensive center.”

“Maaaaaybe. The point is one day we’re gonna have it all.”

He says it like it’s actually true, as if they really are two talented young hockey players one year outside of the draft, with years of experience under their belts and the world at their fingertips. As if they’re not just some poor kids stuck in the boonies simply trying to make it by.

“I almost believe you when you say it like that,” Patrick murmurs, laying his head on Jonny’s chest.

Jonny fits one hand over the nape of his neck, scritches gently at the back of Patrick’s curls.

“You should believe me, I’m usually right.”

 

 _Ten_

The best part of stupid Canada is the lake close to his house. On Sundays his mom lets him go out for an hour to skate around. Sometimes he’ll drag Erica with him and they'll bring sticks and a lamely constructed cardboard rope net, Patrick practicing his shot while Erica tries to tend goal. She’s not very good. That's okay though, Patrick's pretty awesome at stickhandling, shooting, scoring, everything, really.

Today, however, it’s just him and the ice and the spin-o-rama he’s planning on practicing that he saw Jagr do against the Oilers last night. Except when he arrives there's someone already waiting for him. In his spot.

Patrick’s spot, of all places.

“You can’t be here,” he says, snotty and mean.

He, being Jonny Toews.

“Why not?” Patrick throws back.

Jonny sneers. “You’re not allowed.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

Patrick snorts. “You don’t own this lake.”

“I own it more than you,” Jonny says, voice rising. He takes several large strides until he’s up in Patrick’s face, near the edge where land meets ice. “I’m Canadian and this lake is Canadian. So it’s mine,” he states, and slaps Patrick's skates out of his hand as if to prove his point.

Those skates, the ones that are a size too small and dirty, scratched from toe to ankle, are his favorite things in the world. And Jonny may be bigger, his eyes dark like night and his scowl vicious, but he doesn't scare Patrick. At all.

“Whatever,” Patrick says, turning to reach down and grab his property.

Jonny pushes into him. “Get off.”

“No.” Patrick pushes back.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jonny says. He's snarling a little, like a dog, maybe one of those flappy-earred ones that are all bark and no bite.

“No, you get off, you-you fuckstick!”

There's a hand at the collar of his shirt now, strong enough to jerk him backward and forward. Patrick tries twisting away, meaning to escape Jonny's grasp instead of punch back, but when Jonny throws a fist at his shoulder, bony knuckles hitting his ribs, Patrick gasps and kicks out.

They fall, smacking down onto the ice, Jonny over him and Patrick winded beneath.

He can't breathe for a second, mouth open wide and trying to suck in air.

Jonny scrambles off of him looking startled, and as he pushes up, they both hear it: the thunderous crunch and crack of the ice breaking away from underneath him.

It stings like nothing Patrick's ever felt, so cold it's almost burning. He’s sinking, but he can't move. He's frozen, but he's on fire.

It hurts so much more when the air rushes back into his lungs and all he can do is scream, “Jonny! JONNY!”

He’s trying to swim, to catch hold of something and grab onto it to pull himself out, but his limbs are like anchors dragging him down.

There’s water in his mouth and he’s choking, yelling, begging.

And then suddenly there’s Jonny, arms around his middle as he yanks Patrick from the water. They land somewhere on the bank of the lake, panting and clinging to each other. Patrick’s shivering so hard he can’t talk, can barely move.

“Oh god,” Jonny says, frightened. “Patrick. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Cold,” Patrick whispers, throat like shards of glass, and needles poking up and down his body.

“Oh no,” Jonny swallows. “That’s bad. Dad always told me. He always told me you have to keep warm.”

He has one arm around Patrick’s shoulder and the other somewhere around his waist, his knuckles white with how tightly he’s clutching Patrick to him.

“Home,” Patrick says, pointing weakly in the direction of his street. “230 Birch.”

“Okay,” Jonny nods. 

Then he’s heaving Patrick up off the ground.

Patrick doesn’t know how they both make it the two blocks to Patrick’s house, Jonny mostly carrying him as Patrick tries with all his strength to keep upright. He does know Jonny doesn’t let him go until they’ve reached warmth, and safe, and Mom, knows Jonny doesn’t leave.

He closes his eyes to rest as everyone flurries around him, but he catches Jonny’s fingers before he goes too far.

“Don’t forget my skates,” he tells him. Then he passes out.

 

_Eighteen_

“I hate this horseshit fucking shitty ass suckhole job,” Jonny says. “FUCK.”

He takes a seat across from Patrick at their usual park bench a street over from the local used car lot, the one Patrick’s dad manages. He’d gotten Patrick an internship of sorts with the accountant, Gabriel, for the summer. It was supposed to be just a way to make a few bucks before they started at Brandon University in the fall, the school only a short drive from Rapid City. Jonny had, of course, finagled his way into a part time gig in the service department, working in the garage and learning how to change tires and fix engines. This is his third job, technically. On the weekends he earns extra cash for rent at the ice rink, teaching seven year olds how to skate during the day, and, in the evenings, bussing tables at the only decent burger joint in town.

So it’s pretty understandable then that Jonny is a bit sleep deprived, pissy, and grouchy-tired. Patrick can’t help but chuckle at his tantrum anyway.

“Well, hi, honey, you’re in a great mood today.”

Jonny gifts him with his favorite dead-eyed stare, slumping into his seat, as he throws his baseball cap on the table. He has a smudge on his right cheek, oil or dirt, Patrick isn’t sure. He reaches out to clean it away with his thumb, mouth falling open when Jonny brushes him aside.

“Stop.”

“Woah. Someone’s touchy.”

“Your face is touchy.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Oooh, you got me. Got me good.”

Jonny frowns, but says no more, solemnly digging through his brown bag lunch that Patrick made him this morning. They switch off some days, but Patrick makes the lunches more often than not, Jonny too lazy to get his ass up in the morning and help. Patrick makes them anyway, because if he doesn’t, Jonny does stubborn shit like only eating an apple, just an apple, for the whole day, or nothing at all because he refused to grab some of the greasy pizza within walking distance of the garage. Patrick’s an awesome boyfriend, is the takeaway here.

Today’s bag is filled with some of Jonny’s favorites: grape juice, kiwi slices, turkey and mustard on rye, a small side salad with cherry tomatoes, cucumber, chickpeas and cornflower seeds. No one can say he isn’t a damn fine lunch maker, okay.

“If you’re done being cranky now, I brought you some salted caramel.”

Jonny’s eyes flick up from his sandwich, mouth twitching up happily at one side despite all his efforts. 

“When did you have time to get this?”

Patrick shrugs. “This morning before work.”

Jonny ducks his head, grin deepening and lighting his face up beautifully.

“What are you smiling about?” Patrick asks.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing. Definitely looks like something.”

He reaches out to trace over that smile, shivering when Jonny catches his hand and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“What are you so happy about? Tell meeeeee!”

“You, okay,” Jonny says, soft.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You're...ya know…”

Patrick laughs, teasing. “Actually, I don't know. Use your words, bud.”

Jonny purses his lips. “It's nothing. Seriously.”

He gets like this when he’s thinking something he doesn’t want to say, like it means too much for him to put into words. He always ends up saying it anyway because Patrick pushes, impatient to know his thoughts and unused to Jonny not blurting out whatever’s on his mind like every other moment of their lives.

He tries to be patient now, let Jonny have his minute to work through whatever he wants to say and how he wants to say it. Patrick wipes the sweat from his brow. They’re under a large willow tree, shaded from the sun, but it’s one of the warmer summer days they’ve had in awhile and the heat is cloying, sticky thick and heavy. The sky above is a crisp blue, no clouds in sight.

“Jonathan,” he says, running a few fingers over Jonny’s tan, oil marked forearm. “Just spit it out.”

Jonny sighs.

“You're my... I was having a crappy day and then you showed up with your dumb crustless sandwiches and your tiny juice boxes and my day is so much better. You make it all better.”

“Because I'm your...?” Patrick asks, knowing Jonny’s not finished quite yet.

“Because you're my happy place. Okay, there, I said it,” Jonny huffs, looking mortified with himself, radiantly resigned.

Patrick feels the tips of his ears go a fiery red. “You fucking sap.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't let it go to your head.”

“Too late, baby. Too late.”

Jonny makes an exasperated face at him, exaggerated and amused. “I'm stealing the rest of your sandwich. I'm fucking starving.”

“Give me the pickle and the-”

“And the colby cheese. I know.”

They make the trade, Jonny shoving the remaining bits of sandwich into his mouth whole as Patrick munches at his pickle contentedly. They have another ten minutes left, then three more hours of the day before the weekend begins. The first weekend Jonny will have free all month. Patrick hums to himself excitedly at the mere thought of it.

“You're mine too,” he tells Jonny then. “For the record.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Patrick nods, easy.

“Good.”

 

 _Twelve_

The routine after school is the same most days. They walk the six blocks to Patrick's house where they sit in the kitchen doing homework and eating peanut butter apple slices. If they finish early they rush to the lake for a quick skate before dinner. If they don't then they slip down to the basement to fight with Erica or Jess for the television remote while Mom tells them to be quiet.

Patrick never questions why Jonny always stays for dinner. It's just routine. Boring routine. The same routine as always.

Patrick’s tired of their routine.

“Let’s go to your house,” he says when they’re through the field behind their school and heading towards their neighborhood.

“Why my house?” Jonny asks. “There’s nothing there.”

“Exactly!” Patrick grins, bumping into Jonny on the sidewalk. He does it again, smile stretching when Jonny bumps him back.

“What’s so great about that?”

“You can eat whatever you want and watch whatever you want on TV and no one can tell you no. It must be great.”

Jonny shrugs. “I guess.”

He’s got that frowny expression on his face. The one he used to wear all the time before they were friends. Patrick’s never asked him why he’s better now, less sullen, just assumed he took the stick out of his butt after he realized what an amazing friend Patrick is and how lucky Jonny is to have him in his life, naturally.

Maybe he’s touchy about the house thing? Patrick’s not sure.

“I’m starving. You got any snacks?” he asks. 

“Yeah I think so,” Jonny says, staring ahead.

Patrick tugs on Jonny’s shirt sleeve, his jacket thrown over his shoulder even though it’s practically freezing out, the freak, and presses their arms together.

They walk the rest of the way to Jonny’s house without moving apart.

Inside it’s quiet and chilly, the heat turned low and so many of the walls bare. Everything is in shades of blue and gray, the curtains drawn, cabinets a little dusty. It feels unfinished.

“Your house is kinda empty,” Patrick says, poking around as Jonny takes off his shoes by the door.

He shrugs. “Yeah I know.”

“I like it. There’s always someone in mine. Always someone bothering me to do something like take out the stupid trash or feed the cat or play Barbies.”

“Barbies?” Jonny snorts.

Patrick sticks his tongue out. “Shut up. They’re my sisters.”

“Just make them play hockey.”

“They only play hockey if I play Barbies first. That’s the deal,” Patrick explains.

Jonny ponders this dubiously for a few long seconds before making a disgusted face. “Rough.” 

Patrick ducks his head to hide his grin. “So where’s your mom and dad?”

“Dad’s at work. He works a lot.”

He walks past Patrick then to the kitchen, messing around in the fridge before moving onto the pantry.

“Oh, yeah. So does mine. My mom too.”

“My mom’s gone,” Jonny says, the words muffled from his head stuck half inside a shelf, but Patrick hears it anyway.

“She left?”

“She died,” Jonny clarifies, hushed.

Patrick blinks, mouth dropping open. He had no idea. He never asked and he should have, but he just didn’t, and now he doesn’t know what to say. His mom...oh god.

“I’m sorry. I’m. I’m really sorry.”

Jonny shrugs again, scratches at the back of his neck. He half-turns, so that he’s staring at the wall, but not quite at Patrick, and sharp line of his profile hits Patrick somewhere funny, deep in his gut.

“It happened when she was giving birth to me. That’s what my dad says. So I don’t remember her at all. Now he’s gone most of the time, working. But it’s fine. I'm used to it. Do you want a snack? I can make popcorn?”

He’s got the popcorn bag in one hand, but it’s the plain kind without butter. Patrick hates the plain kind, what’s the point if there’s no butter? None. There’s zero point.

“I like popcorn,” he says, biting his lip. He brings one hand up to chew on his thumbnail, but Jonny pulls at it before he can, smirking.

“You’re gross.”

“Your face is gross,” Patrick throws back instantly.

They wrestle around in the dusty shoebox kitchen, giving each other noogies while the popcorn pops in the microwave. Afterward they watch _South Park_ reruns camped out on the couch, knees or calves always touching. 

Jonny never seems to mind when Patrick’s in his personal space, more inclined to put himself in Patrick’s if he’s not. It’s almost weird when they aren’t close together anymore.

 

_Nineteen_

“Hello?” Patrick calls as he makes his way inside their apartment.

The front door sticks often so he has to work it a little to get it to unlock, then shimmy his way through with the food he’s got under one arm.

“In here,” Jonny says, the sound coming from the bathroom. Not many other places he could be really what with this being a one bedroom.

Patrick jiggles his keys free from the ancient lock and throws them on the stained kitchen counter.

“I've got pizza,” he says, shrugging off his backpack and coat as he sets the boxes on the stove.

He’s got about three hours of homework in that bag and the motivation to do exactly none of it. The tempting sound of hockey on TV, a belly full of pizza, their hand-me-down couch, and Jonny are like a sweet, sweet siren call to his tired mind. Seriously, fuck homework.

“Half in half?” Jonny asks, emerging from the bathroom then.

“No, I got you your own because I don't want your disgusting pineapple touching my side.”

Jonny sticks his tongue out. “Well I don't want your nasty green peppers touching mine.”

Patrick hasn’t seen him much all week, their schedules often conflicting and leaving them only the barest slip of time together at night in between sleep and studying. So it’s not really surprising when Jonny draws him in as soon as they’re near, making out with him for several long minutes against the kitchen sink as his hand rakes through Patrick’s curls, over his jaw, his back, and down to his ass as one giant thigh grinds teasingly against his dick. They could fuck on the floor, Patrick thinks. Neither of them really have time for it, but they could. They have before. It wasn’t very comfortable, but then that wasn’t ever the point anyway.

“Mmhmm,” Patrick breathes, as they come up for air. “Has the game started?”

Jonny nips at his lips a few more times, clearly reluctant to let him go. “A few minutes,” he nods, distracted.

They kiss some more, less heated this time, but deep and needy all the same, like sipping great gulps of water after going days without. Eventually they stop because the pizza’s growing cool and their empty bellies are groaning for sustenance, the game heating up in the background.

When they’re seated on the couch side by side, paper plates on their laps and knees touching, Jonny clears his throat.

“So.”

“So?” Patrick asks, watching one of the Ottawa Senators fuck up on a breakaway, mouth half full of cheese and bread and peppers.

“Remember I told you Josh’s dad was looking for an assistant coach to help out part time at the rink? Maybe full time?”

“Yeah?” he says, remembering it vaguely.

Jonny leans into him, nudges Patrick with his elbow. “That’s me. The new assistant.”

“Wait. What? That happened today?”

Jonny nods. “He called me, not even sure how he got my number. Josh, I guess. And we talked for a bit, about my thoughts on the game and how I’d deal with certain issues on and off the ice. At the end he offered me the job.”

“Shit, Jon. That’s great,” Patrick says, shifting his plate to his right hand so he can curl his left around Jonny’s thigh, squeeze it gently.

It’s a bigger deal than Jonny’s modest smile is making it out to be. Ever since they graduated high school, Jonny’s worked his ass off to make enough money so they could live together on their own, pay their rent, have food to eat, and a bed to sleep on that was big enough to fit them both. When they started classes at Brandon, it was so Patrick could focus on school. He takes a full course load himself and works three jobs, and Patrick honestly doesn’t know how he does it. His own work study job at the library on top of all of his math and general education courses is a lot to handle at times. School has never exactly been his favorite, but he’s found something in numbers that only skating has ever made him feel before. Powerful, capable, hopeful.

If Jonny’s found something like that in working with kids, in coaching, then it's pretty fucking significant. It's everything.

“And it pays better than the fucking garage,” Jonny adds, thrilled. “Plus…now I can afford to get you this!”

He hops up out of his seat then, bounding into the bedroom and coming back with a new fifteen inch Lenovo ThinkPad in its pristine sealed white box.

“A laptop,” Patrick says, dumbfounded and confused.

“You said you needed one for school, right?”

“I did,” he replies. And he had, because he’s been a little obsessed with this computer science course he’s taking this semester, fascinated by the algorithms and codes and how they all fit together. It’d been him talking out loud, mostly, complaining about having to use the computers at school, empty venting. He hadn’t meant for this. “But it’s too much, babe, I can’t.”

When Patrick doesn't grab it from him, he sets it gingerly on the coffee table and slides back in next to Patrick on the couch.

Someone scores, people cheer, but Patrick really couldn't tell you who or what team at this moment, too taken off guard by Jonny's news and his insane gift.

“You can. You need it,” he says.

“I was making do,” Patrick counters.

Jonny sighs, long suffering. “Well, now you don’t have to.”

“You could’ve used this for new skates. You’ll need new skates.”

“Not playing, just coaching. I’ll be fine.”

Patrick rubs a hand over his face, his eyes feeling suddenly gritty and wet.

“Jonny,” Patrick chokes. “Fuck.”

“What?”

He jumps into his lap, he can't help it, throwing his arms around Jonny's neck. “God, you’re ridiculous. I love you.”

“You do?” Jonny says. He sounds awed, amazed. His face has the most incredibly dumb and gorgeous expression Patrick’s ever seen, and he falls just a little bit harder with each second Jonny focuses that look on him.

“So much,” he says, and yanks Jonny in fiercely, lips mashing together and tongues tangling sweetly. Patrick kisses him until he’s half sprawled on top of Jonny on the couch, pizza long gone cold, and the game winding down.

“Peeks,” Jonny murmurs in return. His dark eyes almost completely black, heavy lidded, mouth a glistening red. He says it like it's the only word he knows.

And Patrick thinks, _I’ll never want anyone else this much_ , his gaze going blurry again.

 

_Sixteen_

Patrick hisses.

“Stop, stop. It's too big. It’s not gonna fit,” he gasps, nails digging into Jonny’s back.

“I...um,” Jonny says, freezing in place. He’s over Patrick, fitted between Patrick’s legs and halfway inside for the first time.

He’s also trying and failing to muffle the smile breaking over his face.

Patrick glares. “Quit grinning, shithead. You're never getting laid at this rate.”

It’d been Patrick’s bright idea to try this out tonight. His parents are out of town seeing some friends and his sisters at a neighbor's sleepover and it seemed like perfect timing for losing their virginities to each other. Except Patrick hadn’t quite accounted for how Jonny’s dick is a hell of lot bigger than his fingers or the way that it burns a little more with each push inside.

Porn was such a dirty liar.

“Just calm down, okay,” Jonny says, soothing a hand over Patrick’s jaw and up into his hair. “Take deep breaths. I heard that helps.”

Patrick laughs. “You heard that helps? On what? The ‘How To Fuck Your Best Friend’s Ass Just Right’ website?”

“Hey, I did some reading!” Jonny scowls.

They’re just laying together now, unmoving, Jonny on top of him, still hard, and looking flushed all over. It relaxes him for a moment and gradually he starts to feel his body adjust to Jonny inside him, his own dick fattening up again.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” Jonny replies, snippy. He leans his head down and nuzzles at Patrick’s temple anyway, gentle.

“And what sage advice did it give you?”

He kisses a trail along the side of Patrick’s face to his neck, whispering the whole time. “It told me to go slow, smartass. Make sure I take the time to open you up. Listen to what you need. Lots of lube.”

“Why?” Patrick asks, breathless.

“Why lube? Well because it'd hurt to go in dry, obviously.”

“No,” he chuckles. “I mean why'd you look all that up?”

Jonny moves, shifting to look Patrick in the eyes. His dick sliding farther in, almost to the root this time. He shivers. “Oh. Um. Well. I wanted to, you know, make sure it was good for you.”

It feels better now that they’ve slowed down, now that Jonny’s all the way inside his body. He’s rocking back and forth, just these tiny, little, shuddery movements and it’s like electricity sizzling through every single one of Patrick’s nerves. He’s achingly hard against his own belly again, leaking over his abs.

It’s so good.

“Kiss me,” Patrick orders on a moan. “Now.”

They make out, sloppy and inelegant as they move together on Patrick’s puny as fuck rickety twin sized bed, on top of his mismatched flannel sheets and faded gray duvet. Everything is a little slippery, their bodies slick while they slide together. When Jonny’s thrusts speed up they almost topple over to one side, Patrick cackling as they keep going anyway, half hanging over the edge of the bed.

It’s awkward in its newness, having Jonny inside him, filling him up, but it’s familiar too. He could map out the planes of Jonny’s face and the paths his hands make as if they were his own, he knows them so well. There’s no one else he wants this with, no one he could ever imagine having touch him this way.

Jonny’s so earnest in his movements, so tender even as he makes the most ludicrous sex faces Patrick’s ever seen. It’s fun in a way he hadn’t anticipated and as Jonny circles a hand around the wet tip of his dick, he almost flies off the bed it’s so overwhelming, colors popping wildly behind his eyelids.

When he comes, it’s fast and unexpected, him begging Jonny to never ever stop. It’s a futile request as Jonny follows soon after, pressing his face into Patrick’s neck and letting Patrick take some of his body weight. 

“Oh shit,” he pants, licking over Patrick’s throat. “That was the best thing I've ever seen.”

“I am pretty hot,” Patrick agrees.

Jonny huffs a laugh. “Baby, you're so fucking hot.”

He shifts onto his elbows after a minute, easing the pressure off Patrick’s sternum. Before he can go farther Patrick tightens his legs around Jonny’s waist, fingers grasping at his biceps.

“Don't um, don’t get up yet. Okay?” He asks quietly, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Jonny bites at that lip, nuzzles in close. “No way. 'M right here.”

 

 _Twenty_

Patrick receives his acceptance letter in October. It takes him a week for the realization to sink in that everything has fallen into place, that the scholarships came through, and he finally got it, his ticket out of here.

Classes start in January. Which only leaves him two months to buy a plane ticket, pack up, and say goodbye. In between that is his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. It all pales in comparison to laying beside Jonny in bed at the moment and trying to gather up the courage to tell him. 

His stomach claws at him painfully as he tries to catch his breath.

He just has to say it. Just say it. Just.

“I got in,” he blurts out into the quiet room. “To the University of Chicago - I got in.”

Jonny looks up from the notebook he was scribbling plays into, eyes wide.

“Wow. That’s amazing. Congratulations, baby.”

His expression hasn't changed, indecipherable.

Patrick chews at his thumbnail. “You don’t sound very excited.”

Jonny blinks, quirking a smile at him. “I’m just shocked.”

“Because?”

“Because I thought we...It’s just so soon.”

Because we what, Patrick wants to ask, but doesn't. He feels sick.

“Let’s not think about it for awhile, okay?” he says, moving over Jonny until the notebook has to be thrown to the floor. He mouths at the sensitive spot behind Jonny's ear, nibbles gently. “Let’s fuck instead?”

“Okay,” Jonny groans, pulling Patrick down.

It's the best way to escape and not think, in Jonny's arms, and the taste of his tongue. Only after, when they’re sweat damp and curled around each other, tacky come mixed between them, Jonny presses his face to the side of Patrick’s head and exhales a shaky, stuttered breath.

“Don’t leave,” he pleads, so low Patrick almost doesn't hear it. He grasps Patrick tighter, nearer to him. “Please.”

“But what about Chicago? What about getting out of this hellhole and finding a better life?”

Jonny goes quiet, thinking.

 _Come with me!_ Patrick wants to scream. _Just come with me._

He tries to force the words out now but they get stuck like flies in honey at the back of his throat. Jonny’s worked so hard to get his coaching job, they're even talking of making him head coach in a few years. It's the happiest Patrick's seen him maybe ever and he can't take that away and he can't ask Jonny to choose. He won't.

So he chews his lip raw instead.

“It’s not better if we aren’t together,” Jonny says, a murmur against Patrick's ear.

He squeezes his burning eyes shut. “Jonny…”

“You have to go?” he says. It sounds like a question he already knows the answer to.

“I need to go. I need to know if I can do this.”

Jonny nods.

Neither of them speak again and after a while Patrick can hear Jonny fade into a fitful sleep, faced away and turned on his side. Patrick spoons up behind him and burrows his nose into the short, dark strands of his hair. Up above the ceiling is a dingy beige, cracked and uneven. He dreams about the dinosaur stickers and how much he sometimes misses them.

 

_Nine_

The kids at school like to tease him about his lunch, his meager peanut butter and jelly sandwich, his plastic baggy of cheerios, his strawberry Yoohoo. They tease him about his clothes too. How some of his pants don’t reach past his socks, and the holes in the cuffs of his shirts snag on things. He’s got mismatching shoelaces, and a backpack with one working strap.

Erica cried until she got a new pair of pink sneakers. It’s not fair, but the other girls don’t bother her as much anymore so maybe that’s okay.

Most of the kids that pick on him just do it for laughs, they don’t really mean it in a hurtful way. Well, except for maybe Jonny Toews.

He’s taller than the rest of the third graders and skinny, but he’s stronger than he looks. If he’s not scowling then he’s smirking meanly, pushing kids out of his way like he owns the world.

He doesn’t own Patrick. He never _ever_ will.

 

 _Twenty-One_

Jonny was still sleeping when he left for the airport. He’d asked Patrick to wake him up so he could drive him, but Patrick couldn’t make himself do it. If Jonny was here he knows he couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t be able to say goodbye.

It’s so late out it’s still early, the sky a deep dark blue.

Patrick sits in the empty airport cafe with the empty chairs around him and tries to imagine a better way to leave, one that doesn’t feel wrong or like it’s slowly severing him in two. He’s been trying for the last several hours, for weeks even. Maybe there isn’t one.

He pulls out his ticket, fingers fanning out over the letters and numbers, coming to a stop over the word Chicago. It'll always be there, it'll wait. 

And Jonny would wait for him too, Patrick knows this. Jonny’s the most loyal person he’s ever met. He’d wait a lifetime if Patrick asked him, and more. Only Patrick doesn’t want distance or time, or the regret of his own fearful indecision coming in between the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Not now or ever.

When he stands, he lets the ticket fall from his hand onto the tabletop, bending to pick up his duffle bag.

He makes it exactly five steps towards the exit when he hears the very best sound in the entire world.

“You might need that,” Jonny says. “Ya know, for where you're going.”

Patrick looks up at him, struck by the breadth of him, the sheer enormity of his presence even with his hair a fuzzy mess and his longsleeved shirt askew under his backpack. He has so many questions about why and where and when. It doesn’t matter. Jonny’s here. He’s here and he’s real, and the rest can be sorted later.

“ _Jonny_.”

“Hey Peeks,” he grins, lopsided and full of warmth. It’s like that moment years ago when Jonny pulled him from the icy lake, the way surfacing was a rapture. That’s how he feels, seeing Jonny bulldoze his way here, to be right in front of him now.

“Hi,” he says, insufficient and overwhelmed. His heart is shaking.

“So I was thinking and I've decided…”

“You decided?”

Jonny nods once, final. “I'm coming with you.”

Patrick isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. He may have stopped completely.

“What about your coaching job? You were really happy there?”

Jonny shrugs. “I was. But I can find another coaching position in Chicago. And if not, I'll find some other job. There will always be another job. But if I stay here there won't be a _YOU_. So I'm coming.”

Patrick means to fight him on the issue more, intends to be strong and selfless, but what comes out is, “Promise?”

“Well yeah,” Jonny says through a watery sigh. His cheeks are a blotchy rose and gorgeous. “Unless you don't want me.”

Patrick drops his bags and rushes into Jonny’s space, right up against his chest so he can wrap his arms around him furiously tight.

“I want,” he says fiercely. “I've wanted you since I was ten years old.”

Jonny envelops him whole, presses their foreheads together. “Why didn't you ask me. I was waiting...and you never…”

“I was afraid you'd say no.”

Jonny laughs. “You _fuckstick_. I love you. I go where you go. That's how we work.” 

“I'm sorry,” Patrick kisses him, quick on the hinge of his jaw and then softer at the corner of his mouth.

“Don't apologize,” Jonny says, lifting him off his toes, arms safe and strong. “Just. Do you get it now?”

“I get it,” he says, hanging on for the ride. “I do.”

 

_Fourteen_

They’re running through the woods, by the lake, when Jonny trips and falls. He’s the most gracefully clumsy person Patrick’s ever met. He's also hilarious.

Patrick would laugh, but they’re already late, fifteen minutes behind from when Patrick told Mom that they'd be back for dinner. He can picture her now, staring sourly out the kitchen window, waiting for them to appear so she can have Dad chew him out. If he laughed at Jonny now that would only slow them down and make Jonny pissy and he doesn't need his parents and Jonny both mad at him at the same time. What nightmare that’d be.

Instead he moves to help him up, startled when Jonny drags him down instead.

“Hey! The fuck are you doing?” he asks, dirt up the side of his best pair of jeans and Jonny staring at him like a lunatic.

“Just,” Jonny breathes, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. And he really needs to stop trying to wreck the few nice pairs of clothes Patrick’s meager wardrobe has to offer at this point.

He licks his lips, eyes flicking over Patrick’s face like he can’t decide where to settle. He’s intent in the way he only gets when he’s trying to win at pond hockey or study for an important exam.

It’s overwhelming.

Patrick blushes, from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck. He's thought more seriously about Jonny this way for about a year. In the way that guys always want girls, like on TV or in Erica’s dumb Disney princess movies. He's not supposed to want this, but he doesn't care. Jonny's the only person he doesn't ever get tired of, the only one, just Jonny.

It's all pretty terrible, to be honest. Disgusting. An utter embarrassment.

He tries to shift away after a minute, restless and overheated in his own skin and needing something, anything to happen.

“Let me go, asshole.”

“No. I think I’ll keep you for a while,” Jonny says, his breath ghosting over Patrick's cheek. He smells minty like gum and discount shampoo and Patrick's eyelashes flutter involuntarily when Jonny leans in. When their lips touch for the first time, it's hesitant and brief, Patrick swallowing the startled sound deep in his throat. 

Their eyes lock when they part, Jonny diving back in before Patrick can even exhale. He devours Patrick’s mouth, tongue slick as it slides wetly against his own. He feels so alive in Patrick’s arms, like one of these nearby trees, rooted to the earth and stretching out all around him, branches swaying in the wind. Patrick tangles his fingers into the back of Jonny’s jacket to hold him close, grounded.

“Right here?” Patrick asks, curling his limbs over Jonny’s body, so they’ll grow together.

Jonny tightens his arms, smiling. “Right here,” he says.


End file.
